Dr. Lecter's Experiment
by Kurt
Summary: Dr. Lecter, back in the U.S., needs to bide his time and finds a unique way to pass his time. Rated R for some medical icky stuff. This is my first fic, so keep that in mind. Thanks, and enjoy.
1. Dr. Lecter's problem

Hannibal Lecter, M.D. was a man of many tastes ranging from cultured to bizarre. His years since his escape had not always allowed him to indulge his tastes. But he tried as he could.  
  
It had been two years since he had escaped from Memphis. In that two years, Dr. Lecter had been living in South America, enjoying the results of the money he had at ready hand. After two years, the first account had run dry. There were, of course, much larger accounts that Lecter possessed. However, he had discovered to his chagrin that his attempts to hide them from the IRS had also succeeded in blocking him from accessing the accounts remotely: he had to show up in person to get money out of them. He had, after a fashion, outsmarted himself.  
  
So, he had taken out three ID's from those he had a stash of: one to enter the U.S. with, one to live in the U.S. with, and one to leave the U.S. with. And off he had went to a flight at Toronto Airport, where he crossed back into the United States for the first time in twenty-four months. The U.S. gate agent waved him through without a problem, believing him to be a Canadian citizen just down for a visit.  
  
Then, problems had arisen. Specifically, that his exit identity's passport was a month expired. He was enraged with himself for making such an elemental mistake. He was loath to enter any type of federal building to have it replaced; he did not know if the FBI was still seeking him or not, but it was foolish to take the chance. Dr. Lecter's in-country identity did not have a passport, either, and he didn't like switching it around.  
  
There wasn't much else he could do, except remind himself that he wasn't perfect and that this would always remind him to have enough money ready that he would never do anything this foolish again. So Dr. Lecter did the best he could do: he moved money from the trust funds to accounts available for him to use, contacted his best Brazilian forger, and asked how long it would take to have papers made.  
  
"A few months or so," the forger said.  
  
"That's awfully long," Dr. Lecter said.  
  
"Long, yes. I need to do right, though," the forger said. "You know, you come to me for quality. I need to get I.D. Make computer records. Make ID. Then ship to you. Cannot ship direc' from Brazil to your door. Need to ship to Canada, then to U.S., then to you."  
  
Dr. Lecter knew it all very well – he used this man because he was the best, and very very careful. Still, it was infuriating. But again, all that he could do was wait. So he rented himself a house in the country for a month in a location far from his normal base of operations. He negotiated a short-term lease on a Cadillac, even though they were not his favorite. And he settled in to wait for his papers, playing the role of a wealthy, retired doctor. Eventually, his fury at himself began to wear off, as this interlude in his life was relaxing and almost dreamy.  
  
And he liked his espresso.  
  
For the past several weeks, Dr. Lecter had visited a coffee shop in the city, not terribly far from his home. The coffee shop was a local one, and they had excellent gourmet coffee. Dr. Lecter particularly liked their espresso. They had several.  
  
He also liked the young barista who served it to him. She was an attractive young woman, with very fair skin and black hair and eyes. The combination was stunning, he thought. As well, she was courteous and receptive to courtesy – often, she would put away an espresso she thought he would like until he came in. In discussions with her, Dr. Lecter had learned that she is a first-year medical student at the nearby medical school; the job at the coffee bar is necessary to help with school and living expenses. He enjoyed chatting with her about medicine as he took his espresso. Behind the pretty face lurked a sharp mind. Dr. Lecter thought she would make an excellent doctor. She was far too smart to be slinging coffee for a living.  
  
Her name was Erin, and she wore a Medic Alert bracelet on one wrist. Dr. Lecter did not know at first what it signified. He did not need to ask; he was patient. Eventually, he was rewarded. The bracelet had flipped upside down when she handed him a cappucino, and a moment was all Dr. Lecter needed to memorize the number.  
  
Dr. Lecter's current identity was that of another doctor he had killed before his incarceration. He had a driver's license in the name of Robert Lawson, a birth certificate, and a Social Security card. He did not have a passport and was loath to get one in this name; he couldn't be sure if the police had ever found where he had buried the original Dr. Lawson. Fortunately, Dr. Lawson's medical credentials were impeccable and easily updatable. 


	2. Preparations

Dr. Lecter called the Medic Alert toll-free number later that evening.  
  
"Medic Alert, can I help you?"  
  
"Yes, my name is Dr. Robert Lawson. A young girl has passed out on the sidewalk near my house, and she's wearing your bracelet."  
  
"What is the number, please?"  
  
Dr. Lecter gave the operator the number off Erin's bracelet.  
  
"OK," the operator said. "That's Erin Lander. Blood type O, dialysis patient."  
  
"Do you happen to have her tissue type?"  
  
"I'm sorry, no. Just blood type and dialysis."  
  
"I see. That's hardly your fault. Thank you so much."  
  
"Mm-hmm, thank you for calling."  
  
Dr. Lecter sat back and considered. He had the time and the money. He knew he would have to hide out here for a month or so before his papers would be ready. This might be an interesting experiment…a welcome means of diversion. And what a wonderful way to thumb his nose at the medical establishment it would be. Of course, if he was to do this, he would need to do it right: she would need to be kept under his control for about a week. And he could not exactly hire a visiting nurse, so all of the responsibility for her care would fall on him. Dr. Lecter wasn't terribly concerned about the FBI, but he did have to keep them in mind. No, for him, the question was mostly one of whether or not he was able to take her on as his charge or not. For once he had, it must be done right or not at all.  
  
Yes, he thought. The house, the car, and the furnishing of this temporary life were all good enough, but not what he had been used to. He preferred the finest things in life. To him, the large country house with its furnishings and china were a step below. He could sit here in this house for a month and hide, but he knew that he would become resentful. Resentful of the location of the house, for not being close to the opera and theater. Resentful of the Cadillac, for not being a Jaguar. Resentful of the china in the cabinet, for not being Gien French. Resentful of himself, for having to live a step below his usual standards. This would occupy his mind, at least, and give him something to do.  
  
Well, he would do some research first. His computer had a cable modem, which he liked a great deal. He thought the web was a simply wonderful invention: it enabled him to track down rare books and gourmet food. Quite a signal-to-noise problem, though. After a moment or two of reflection, he sat down at the computer he had purchased and opened several browser windows.  
  
He cruised to amazon.com, google.com, and several vendors of medical textbooks. In each search window he typed the words 'kidney transplant'. He ordered several books for next-day shipping and reviewed a few articles. Little of the information was for a doctor's level of understanding; it was mostly for patients.  
  
The next morning, Dr. Lecter checked the local hospitals against the list of transplant centers on the UNOS website. Once he found the proper one, he called its main number, explained what he wanted, and successfully navigated the bureaucracy until he spoke to a very charming older woman with the transplant program. He told her Erin Lander was a patient of his, and he would like a copy of her medical records with them, if he could trouble them for that. The woman on the other end of the line stated that she would be happy to, once they had a signed release form from the patient. She offered to send or fax one to Dr. Lecter's office. Dr. Lecter gave her his fax number and thanked her very much.  
  
Once he got it, he signed it with her name and set it beside his fax machine. He would send it later. Checking his doorstep revealed that the books he had ordered rush delivery had arrived. He decided to read those for a while and then send it towards the end of the day.  
  
Dr. Lecter settled back with the books. He was not a surgeon by trade, but his more jaded tastes had cultivated his skills in the area of removing human body parts. As he read, he considered and thought, jotting notes in the margins in his old-fashioned copperplate. He read the books quickly, but was confident that he could have quoted back any page in any of them, had the need arisen.  
  
After finishing four of the books, he faxed the release form back to the hospital. A few moments later, papers began spitting out of the fax machine. Dr. Lecter's fax machine was an excellent model with the best resolution, and he was able to glean most of what he needed from the file. There were a few wild doctor's scribblings he could not make heads or tails of, but he had what he needed.  
  
"I've got you, Erin," he murmured as he opened another book and prepared to commit its contents to memory. "Now all I need is a donor."  
  
When the fifth book was finished, Dr. Lecter was sure he would be able to do this. Not the way the books said to do it, but still he could do it. In fact, he believed his technique was better. All he needed was a victim. A particular victim, he knew; this must not be a slapdash effort. He needed someone whose tissue types were close to Erin's.  
  
In the end, it proved to be simpler than Dr. Lecter had thought. He located another city, three hours away, and sought out the area that all cities had – the area for the working poor, barely blue-collar. He put up signs advertising a study and offered twenty dollars for a blood sample. Those of the desired blood and tissue types, the sign advised, would be offered the chance to be in a study of bone marrow for a thousand dollars apiece. Then it was merely a matter of renting a small office and waiting for business to boom.  
  
There were quite a few takers, Dr. Lecter surmised. Most of these people were not willing to turn down twenty dollars for a simple vial of blood. Dr. Lecter was faintly amazed at how much personal data these people parted with willingly for the sum as well. He had to go to a medical supply company for more, but with Dr. Lawson's medical license it was as routine a transaction as buying soap.  
  
Once he had a thousand, he sent them off and hoped for the best. This was costing him a bit of money, but he had, after all, ordered cases of wine costing twelve thousand dollars. Now that he had access to the money in his best-hidden accounts, the sum his experiment cost him was merely a rounding error.  
  
He got them back a few days later, and in perusing the test results, he was pleased to find a possible donor. Five tissue matches out of six, about as good as he could expect from an unrelated donor. He telephoned the woman whose tissue matched from a pay phone.  
  
"Good morning," he said on the phone. "I'm looking for Deirdre Richardson."  
  
"At's me."  
  
"Mrs. Richardson, I'm Dr. Lawson. You participated in a blood-type study a few days ago?"  
  
"Yeah, I did. Why?"  
  
"Your tissue types match up with my study. If you would like to participate, it would simply involve removing some excess tissue and some bone marrow."  
  
"What's it pay?"  
  
Dr. Lecter had counted on this. "The pay for subjects is one thousand dollars."  
  
"A thousand!" He heard raucous, scratchy laughter emitting from nicotine-scarred lungs. "You got it, bub. Name the place."  
  
"My office," he said. "Do you remember the address?"  
  
"I got it off yer flyer," she grumbled.  
  
"When would be convenient for you?"  
  
"After six. I gotta work at the diner."  
  
"Six-thirty, perhaps?"  
  
"OK, see ya then."  
  
The woman hung up on him. Dr. Lecter's lips pursed. The woman seemed to be quite rude.  
  
At six-forty-five, the woman flounced into the furnished office Dr. Lecter had rented for a month. According to the form she had filled out, she was scarcely older than Erin, but looked twenty years older.  
  
She grinned at Dr. Lecter with yellowing, discolored teeth and raised a hand.  
  
"Hey," she wheezed.  
  
"Good evening."  
  
"So where's this study? Here?"  
  
"Yes. Please come with me into the exam room."  
  
"OK, whatever." She pushed past him through the hall and into the exam room. There was a stretcher there, and she flopped herself down on it. The stretcher emitted a faint 'wuff' as the cushions compressed under her.  
  
"First I need to give you this injection," Dr. Lecter said, and did so.  
  
"Whatever, doc. Just so I get my grand and blow this joint."  
  
Dr. Lecter pretended to perform a few more basic medical tests until the tranquilizer took hold. Once the donor was unconscious, he rolled her out to the loading dock, where his Cadillac was parked. He dropped her into the trunk without effort. Before he closed the trunk door, he carefully placed fifty twenty-dollar bills in her limp hand.  
  
"There you are," he said, and drove home.  
  
At home, he brought her down to the basement, where he had set up a rudimentary operating theater. There was a cot there already, which he put her on. He cut away her clothes and strapped a mask over her face. The mask was attached to a canister of gas, which he turned on. The donor lay completely limp and unmoving. Just in case, he locked the door to the operating room. He thought he was being silly; with the mask and the gas constantly running, it was much more likely that the donor would be a brain- dead vegetable in a few hours than an escaped victim.  
  
Well, the donor was here. Now he needed his recipient. 


	3. Seizure

The drive into the city was uneventful. Dr. Lecter inserted a Mozart CD into the car's CD player. It was quite peaceful, he thought. Perhaps Cadillacs were not so bad. He felt wrapped up in his own little world, a world of carpets and leather seats and pleasant music, as his car raced along the highway towards the city.  
  
It was eight-thirty by the time he arrived. That was for the best, even though the coffee shop closed at nine. He knew that Erin worked this shift, and she closed up. She usually preferred to close up alone. He pushed open the door and walked inside. The shop was not terribly busy, and he was able to get a seat right at the bar. Erin was her usual flurry of motion, from hither to yon and back again. When she saw him, she smiled.  
  
"Hi, Dr. Lawson," she said. "What would you like today?"  
  
"Any recommendations?"  
  
"We've got a nice almond amaretto in today," she said.  
  
"I'll try that, then. Thank you."  
  
"Espresso or cappucino?"  
  
"Espresso, please."  
  
He watched her flit to the coffee machine and heard the machine make its loud bray. A few minutes later, she poured it into a cup and gave it to him.  
  
"Two-twenty-five, please," she said with practice.  
  
Dr. Lecter handed it to her along with a two-dollar tip. He sipped at it and found it quite good. When he finished, he ordered another. Although closing time was approaching quickly, she did not make faces at him, as some of the other staff did.  
  
"How is medical school?" he asked.  
  
"Fine. Keeping me busy."  
  
"Have you read the article in JAMA that I recommended to you?"  
  
She thought for a moment. "Yes, I did. It was interesting. Thank you for pointing it out."  
  
"I think he's mistaken, though."  
  
The shop was calming down as customers left. She had a moment to pause and stood on the other side of the bar from him.  
  
"You're a psychiatrist," she objected.  
  
"I have worked in trauma before."  
  
"But once it comes time for a thoractomy, things are pretty bad anyway. Maybe his technique will save a few people."  
  
"His case examples are self-serving," Dr. Lecter observed. "For every person it saves it will kill two others. It will only work for a certain type of gunshot wound."  
  
"I guess you'd know better," she admitted. "I'm not even an intern yet."  
  
"You'll get there."  
  
Closing time came, and Dr. Lecter had only finished half of his espresso. Another employee came up to Erin and asked about leaving. Erin told him to finish up a few small chores and go. They continued discussing medicine until it was ten minutes past closing time. The other employee in the bar stacked up the chairs on the tables. Then he interrupted to announce that he was leaving. Dr. Lecter glanced at him as if nervous.  
  
"That's okay," Erin assured him. "We don't put up the bar stools."  
  
"If you need to close up, I'll leave," Dr. Lecter offered. "I certainly don't want to keep you from your studies."  
  
Erin eyed him carefully. She was weighing something in her mind; doing her job the way it was supposed to be done or humoring the big tipper. Dr. Lecter removed a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the counter. It was enough to tip the balance in his favor, apparently.  
  
"No, you can stay," she said. "I just have to balance my drawer and lock up, then you have to go."  
  
Balancing her drawer took only a few minutes; she rarely made drawer mistakes. It took slightly longer to run through the checklist of the closing ritual: lock back doors, drop the cash in the drop safe, get the lights, arm the alarm system. Dr. Lecter stood politely by the door as she approached to lock it.  
  
"May I walk you to your car?" he asked, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his camel's hair overcoat, even though he wore gloves.  
  
Erin smiled at him ruefully. For a moment, he was reminded overwhelmingly of Clarice Starling.  
  
"I don't have a car," she said. "I take the bus." She punched in the code to arm the alarm, and Dr. Lecter memorized it.  
  
"I can give you a ride, if you like," Dr. Lecter offered graciously.  
  
Her mouth twitched. He supposed she was going to the dialysis center. She tried to hide her illness, and would not want to share it with him. Ah, but my dear, if my hypothesis is correct, you'll never need to see that temple of misery again, he thought.  
  
"No, that's OK. Thank you, though. I don't want to inconvenience you." She flipped the sign to CLOSED, shut the door, and set the lock. On the other side of the door, the alarm box shifted from green to red and announced this with a high-pitched beep.  
  
Dr. Lecter took his left hand from his pocket. In it was a cloth soaked in ether. He removed his empty right hand from his pocket and flexed it. When he moved, he moved quickly.  
  
"I insist," he said, and grabbed Erin's right wrist with his right hand. He expertly maneuvered her against the wall. Dr. Lecter was much stronger than he looked, and the girl had little chance. He felt her take a deep breath to scream and covered her lower face with the rag.  
  
She fought him, but it was to no avail. Dr. Lecter glanced up and down the street. People were on the sidewalks, but so far no one had paid them any attention. He needed to get her inside, quickly, or that would change. Her keys still hung in the door lock, and he let her right hand go. He grabbed the key and twisted it. The light above the keypad flicked from green to red and emitted a threatening beep. He pulled her into the darkened espresso bar and entered the code he had seen her use. The alarm shifted back to green, emitted a mollified chirp, and bothered him no more.  
  
He locked the door behind him, groping with his free right hand as he kept her up and held the cloth over her mouth and nose. He was easily strong enough to hold her with one arm, but physics applied to him as everyone else; he had difficulty getting the leverage he needed. Once inside the bar, he was able to use both hands to control her. She succeeded in knocking one chair off its table, which attracted no attention from those outside. Her struggles were already growing weaker, and within a few minutes she went limp against him. Once unconscious, she was quite light and easier to control.  
  
He made his way through the bar to the back door, which opened onto a grubby alleyway. Parked near the back door was his leased Cadillac. Dr. Lecter hauled his captive over to it, grabbed the passenger-side doorhandle, and stuffed her inside. That done, he went over to his own side, opened it, and set about securing her. He fastened the seat belt on her and tied the rag so that it stayed on by itself. That would work, he thought; even if it slipped off he would have ample time to replace it before she could stir enough to resist him.  
  
Satisfied, Dr. Lecter started the Cadillac and prepared to drive home. He had not been a fan of Cadillacs before his incarceration – it was nothing like the supercharged Bentley he had owned prior to his incarceration. Still, it met his desire for luxury and his desire to be inconspicuous. A Bentley or a Jaguar would have drawn too much attention to him. While the Cadillac was a step below his normal standards, it had its charms. The side windows were tinted; he would have privacy.  
  
He drove home with his prize, to the house he had rented in the country. It took him perhaps ninety minutes. She did not stir on the ride home. Once there, it was much easier to move her into the house and to the operating theater he had set up in the basement. The donor was already there, although by now, Dr. Lecter believed she would be brain dead. She had certainly been sucking gas long enough.  
  
Dr. Lecter had already set up what he needed. He had made sure to eat beforehand and sleep late. The procedure would need to be done quickly, and he did not have the luxury of a surgical team. A normal surgeon could not have done it, but Dr. Lecter knew he could. He had, after all, spent eight years on a ward for the criminally insane listening to madmen howl out their demons for hours on end. It was merely a question of will and desire.  
  
He carried her down to the pre-op room he had set up and laid her on the gurney there. His fingers moving with a smooth economy of motion, he cut her clothing off with a set of EMT shears. He attached the electrodes of an EKG to her chest. Unlike most men would have done, he paid no attention at all to her breasts; there wasn't time for that and he considered it rude, anyway. As a psychiatrist, he knew the value of trust. And a person must trust their surgeon as well as their psychiatrist. He inserted an IV butterfly into the back of her hand and started a saline drip. He rolled her carefully onto her stomach, turning her face to the side. Then he replaced the rag with a proper mask hooked to a tank of isoflurane. The mask's rasping provided him ample opportunity to monitor her breathing.  
  
Dr. Lecter rolled her into the operating theater and took the opportunity to scrub up at a nearby sink. It wasn't exactly surgical procedure, but he believed it would do. He had scrubbed the room down with Betadine and disinfectant. He also had antibiotics at the ready for Erin, and the donor would not be concerned in any case.  
  
Dr. Lecter had a cap, gown, mask, and gloves ready to go on a hanger, since he had no surgical nurse to help him. After donning his gear, he walked in between the cot the donor lay on and the gurney that his charge lay on. He lifted his scalpel from a tray.  
  
"Very well then," he said to the empty air and two unconscious women. "Let the experiment begin."  
  
It took almost fifteen hours from start to finish. Dr. Lecter did not care about the donor, of course, but he did intend for his charge to survive the procedure. It took a few hours to free the first organ. He had decided to tranplant it first, then go back for the other one once he was satisfied it was alive. He knew well that his incision would most likely be on his charge's back for life, and this displeased him. Rather than mar her with a single straight slash, Dr. Lecter carefully carved a curving S-shape with curled tips into her back. She would be marked, yes, but perhaps the markings would be easier to bear if they were attractive. Like a Stradivarius violin, Dr. Lecter thought as he carefully sutured Erin's blood vessels to her new kidney. The old one Dr. Lecter had simply dropped in a medical-waste bowl. When he finally removed the clamps and saw the kidney turn pink, glistening with life, he simply smiled, nodded, and turned to the donor to get the other one.  
  
When all was said and done, Dr. Lecter was exhausted. He did not show it, thought, and he discharged his responsibilities to his charge admirably. He rolled the gurney carefully up a ramp to the outside of the house and then in through the double doors on the ground floor. He would have preferred to avoid the trip outside, but he judged it as the lesser evil to taking her off the gurney.  
  
She had just had major surgery, after all.  
  
Back in the house, he rolled the gurney to the white room he had decided his charge would spend her convalescence. He set her on the bed as carefully as any mother ever handled her newborn. He sighed. Now came some unpleasantries.  
  
Dr. Lecter selected a Foley catheter and inserted it. She was still anesthetized and did not move. It was a simple matter to hook the tubing to a plastic collection bag attached to the side of her bed. Dr. Lecter thought catheterization a particularly demeaning act, and was not pleased with having to do it to his charge. His displeasure was mollified as he saw liquid begin to flow into the bag already.  
  
Next, he took from a drawer a set of institutional restraints. Dr. Lecter had seen these used often on the cellblock, but never on him: Chilton had known those were much too lenient for him. These were simple, tan leather cuffs, designed to fit around the average person's wrists. Again, Dr. Lecter did not particularly enjoy tying down his charge, but he deemed it medically necessary. He fastened them around her upper arms just above the elbows instead of her wrists; they were very small, and this would allow her at least some dignity.  
  
From the same drawer, he took a set of white silk pajamas. He had already cut a hole in the pajama pants for the catheter tube, as well as slits in the sleeves to allow for the cuffs. He had attached two nylon straps to the bed itself; these he threaded through the slits and attached to the cuffs. When she woke, she would be able to move her lower arms somewhat, but not her upper arms or her body. Better that she not attempt to wander or escape once she awoke. Not until he had the chance to speak with her and explain what had been done to her.  
  
He thought for a moment and fastened another strap around her wrists, but one she could undo. It was merely to keep her hands out of her face and to ensure the IV needle in the back of her hand remained safe. Until the experiment was complete, she was his charge, after all. It was his responsibility. He knew she would sleep for at least three more hours and allotted himself two hours.  
  
The thought of his bed was quite welcome. Dr. Lecter injected her first series of drugs into the IV and then tucked a comforter around her. He was concerned about infection and gave her extra antibiotics just in case.  
  
He went down to his own bedroom and laid down for his two-hour nap. It seemed to him that almost as soon as he closed his eyes, he was awake again. A glance at the clock ensured that one hundred and twenty minutes had gone by. He arose, splashed cold water on his face, and went downstairs, where he took the donor's body out to the outside shed. Before he buried the body, he took care to remove the money from her grasp. Then to the kitchen, where he made himself a quick meal and returned to Erin's sickroom. He brought a book with him and sat down in the chair by her bedside.  
  
Quietly, he began to read, looking up at her every few moments. 


	4. Introductions

The single light in the room reflected Dr. Lecter's eyes in red points. He had been alternately checking her for signs of wakefulness and reading Marcus Aurelius. She had begun to stir a few minutes ago, and so Dr. Lecter was glancing up from his book more frequently. He was not surprised when her eyes fluttered open. She looked around the room silently for a moment or two, bewilderment and fear mixing on her face.  
  
"Good morning, Erin," Dr. Lecter said. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Dr. Lawson?" That was, of course, the only name she knew him by. "Where am I?" she asked. Her eyes locked on his as if first noting his presence. She blinked, shook her head and tried to sit up.  
  
"My house," Dr. Lecter said truthfully.  
  
"Why? Why can't I get up? How long have I been here? What time is it? What day is it?" A high note of hysteria jumped into her voice. Dr. Lecter pursed his lips distastefully.  
  
"You've been here for a day or so. It's October 4th, and it's 10 AM. Please, rest. You've just had major surgery."  
  
"Surgery?!" She sat up harder. The motion was snubbed short by the straps on her arms. "I have to go," she said wildly. "My God, I have class, I was supposed to be at the center last night."  
  
Dr. Lecter chuckled and rose from his chair. He strode over to her bed. "You're not going anywhere, Erin," he said. "Not for a while. Are you in discomfort? I can give you a painkiller if you like."  
  
"I have class," she repeated, staring walleyed at him.  
  
"You'll have to miss it," he said . "I'm sure they'll understand. You'll be out for about a week. No problem, happens all the time."  
  
"A week! "  
  
"Yes," he said. "Now, please relax. You'll stay here with me. I'll take care of you."  
  
"I need to go," she repeated.  
  
"Well, you're not."  
  
"I need to call Angela then. She's my roommate. I have to tell her where I am."  
  
Dr. Lecter paused. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, either."  
  
Her eyebrow raised quizzically at him. "Dr. Lawson, just because I'm in the hospital doesn't mean you can tell me I can't use the phone."  
  
"I guess you didn't hear me," he said calmly. "You're not in a hospital. You're in my home."  
  
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He watched her attempt to process the situation.  
  
"How did I get here?" she asked cautiously.  
  
"I brought you here," he said promptly. "I apologize for the ether, but it was necessary."  
  
Her jaw dropped at that. "You used ether on me?"  
  
He nodded. "Yes, once you'd closed up the espresso bar. I am sorry, and it was necessary to get you here."  
  
For several long moments, she said nothing. Her eyes flicked to him, down to the bed she was in, then around the room. She shifted her arms, noting that while she could move her lower arms, she was still pinioned in the bed. Then something appeared to click in her mind; her face calmed and she pondered. Dr. Lecter could almost hear the snap of synapses. She raised her arms and showed him open palms. When she spoke again, her tone was placatory and reasonable, as if he was the hysterical one.  
  
"Dr. Lawson," she said in a shaky tone, "you have to let me go. Now I promise that I will come back, and I will spend time with you and talk to you as much as you like, but you have to let me go. I…I have to have dialysis. My kidneys don't work. I was supposed to have it last night, but…" she trailed off. "If you try to keep me here, I'll die in a few days. Now I promise I won't press charges, and I promise I'll come back, but you'll kill me if you keep me here."  
  
It was not the first time someone had pleaded with Dr. Lecter for release, nor promised him amnesty. He simply smiled and shook his head.  
  
"You're certainly in no condition to leave. Don't worry, though. You won't die and you don't need dialysis," he said.  
  
"Yes I do. I'm not making this up, Dr. Lawson. I have a Medic Alert bracelet." She glanced down at her bare wrist. She stared down at it for a few beats, then back up to him. "Okay, I guess you took it. Call the number, they'll tell you." Her voice began to pick up notes of panic. "If you try to keep me here," her voice began to thicken with fear and tears, "I'll go into a coma in about a day or so, and then I'll…," It took her two tries to get the last word out. "I'll die."  
  
"But Erin," Dr. Lecter said calmly, "surely you feel the discomfort in your back, do you not? You have two fully functioning kidneys now, not one but two."  
  
She glanced down, obviously concentrating on her back. "You can't do that," she said dully.  
  
"Yes, you can," Dr. Lecter said. "I know it's a lot to take in, but hear me out."  
  
She looked wordlessly at him.  
  
"You want to be a doctor yourself, I presume you don't get ill easily. Can you feel the catheter in your urethra?"  
  
"That won't do anything," she said. "I told you, I have kidney failure."  
  
"Hear me out, I asked."  
  
She closed her mouth and lowered her head. Dr. Lecter noted a tear beginning to form in one eye. Doubtlessly she thought he was a lunatic who had kidnapped her for some sexual purpose and she would die trying to convince him that she was sick.  
  
"Would you like to see the catheter, or can you feel it?"  
  
"I can feel it," she said stubbornly.  
  
"Good. Can you feel the tube against your leg? It exits from a hole in your pajamas. Do you see the tube on the side of the bed there?"  
  
"Yes," she said, her tone exasperated.  
  
Dr. Lecter reached down and grabbed the plastic bag that the tube was attached to. It was half-filled with urine. He held it up wordlessly in front of her and hung it back on its hook.  
  
"Now do you believe?"  
  
"You can't just do a kidney transplant in a house," she said. "Look, maybe you think you did a kidney transplant on me, but you need surgeons and a transplant hospital and a donor."  
  
"You don't need surgeons, and you don't need a hospital," Dr. Lecter rejoined. "That is simply how it is typically done. I did it. There are incisions in your back and your bladder is obviously in good working order. How much more proof do you need?"  
  
She was starting to believe now, in spite of herself. The poor girl. All that time she had doubtlessly believed that it was her fate to wait until her lucky number came up. Now it had, although the way it had happened defied belief.  
  
"But…where did you get it?"  
  
"Them," he stressed. "There are two. And never mind that; UNOS would not have told you and neither shall I."  
  
She blinked at him, shock, disbelief, and slow belief carrying on a shadow montage on her face.  
  
"I'll show you the incisions, if you like. But you will need to stand up, so first you must promise me that you won't try to flee or overpower me. You're too weak and you can't possibly succeed, so don't try."  
  
She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"All right, all right," she said. "I promise."  
  
"Smart girl." He came forward and produced the key to the cuffs. He unlocked each in turn, sliding them out from under her sleeves and discarding them under the bed like the distasteful detail they were. He lifted the catheter bag in one hand, another distasteful detail that, unfortunately, could not be so easily discarded.  
  
"Now put your feet on the ground," he directed. She complied. He put an arm around her hips, mindful of the incision, and put her arm around his neck with the other. Shakily, she stood.  
  
"Excellent."  
  
He walked her over to the door, where there were mirrors mounted on opposite walls.  
  
"Face me, and put your arms around my neck. You may fall. Put your head over my shoulder and look in the mirror."  
  
She did. Carefully, Dr. Lecter raised the back of her pajama jacket. The incisions were covered over with gauze and tape. There was blood visible on one of them, and he decided the dressing could be changed.  
  
"I have to change those dressings," he said. He grabbed the chair on which he had been sitting with his foot and pulled it over.  
  
"Sit on that, please. Backwards, like a cowboy."  
  
She sat. Dr. Lecter saw a shadow pass over her face. She stared into the mirror intently, her eyes locked on the reflection of the two dressings on her back.  
  
"I'll give you some Vicodin," he said soothingly as he raised the jacket higher and tucked the hem into her collar. Very gently, he removed the tape holding the dressings onto her skin. He heard her gasp as he removed the bandages, exposing the curved incisions held together by Steri- Strips.  
  
"My God," she said, turning her head around to look at him. "What did you do to me?"  
  
"I told you," he said, smiling pleasantly. "Gave you new kidneys."  
  
She tensed then. Dr. Lecter had held many captives before, and knew exactly what she was doing. Her eyes shifted to the door, then back to him in the mirror. She was calculating the distance to the door and trying to figure if she could reach the door before him. He could tell from the tensing in her shoulders and thighs. She would try to get the chair in between her and him, so that he might stumble on it and buy her a few more seconds.  
  
Predictable, really, but Dr. Lecter preferred the ones who would fight. Those who simply accepted their fates were more boring. Still, it wasn't time.  
  
He straightened up and put a hand on her shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but not without tones of control.  
  
"Don't," he said politely.  
  
She stiffened under his touch; all the proof he needed. "Don't what?" she asked guardedly.  
  
"Try to flee," he clarified. "I know you were thinking of it; I can see it in your eyes."  
  
She glanced down at the floor and her shoulders slumped. He was satisfied; he would be able to replace the dressings now. She would be too busy trying to figure out how he had known and if she could talk her way out of it.  
  
Silently, Dr. Lecter replaced the dressings. The incisions had wept a little, but that was to be expected and it wasn't too bad. Two new sterile pads, a bit of surgical tape, and it was done. When it was done, he walked to the table, where a small vial of Vicodin and a crystal pitcher of spring water stood sentinel. As he went, he kept an eye on her in the mirror. He doubted she would try anew, but one never knew. People did strange things under stress.  
  
He shook out two of them, pouring a paper cup of water to go with it. He held out the cup in one hand, white oval-shaped pills lying in his other palm. She made no move to take either, simply stared at his palm, then back up to his eyes. Her arms remained crossed and holding the back of the chair.  
  
"Those are Vicodin, I assure you," Dr. Lecter said calmly. "If you like, I can let you look them up in Physician's Desk Reference."  
  
She ignored the offer. "Dr. Lawson?" she asked. Her tone was quite serious, but not afraid. Dr. Lecter liked that.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Are you going to kill me?"  
  
So flat. So unemotional. As if she was back in the coffee bar and asking if he wanted espresso or a cappucino today. Her eyes did not waver off his. And yet he could see her knees trembling. Still, that was good. Most of Dr. Lecter's victims had cried pitifully at the end, as if dignity meant nothing to them at all.  
  
"Erin," he said, a note of pique entering his voice, "you have been unconscious in this house alone with me for almost an entire day. I have had ample opportunity to kill you twenty times over. I have not. Instead, I have given you the gift of life. I shall have to ask that you show some due consideration."  
  
"Thank you for that," she said to mollify him. "Are you going to let me go, once…,well, once you're done with me?"  
  
"Yes, once you have recovered sufficiently to resume classes, and I have had the chance to do some things I want to do," Dr. Lecter rejoined. "Now take the pills, please. They're simply Vicodin, and the dose is perfectly standard."  
  
She still did not move to take the pills he offered. For a moment he was tempted to let her go without, and see if she would be more tractable after a few hours of incisional pain. But he pushed that away. She was his charge, after all, and he couldn't ignore his duties merely because she was distrustful of him.  
  
"I'll take one, if it'll make you feel more secure," he offered.  
  
She shook her head once, and then took them from his hand suddenly. The brush of her fingers against his reminded him of a cat's paw taking a proffered treat from its owner. Fitting, he thought. One could not really own a cat, and he did not think one could really own Erin. She took the cup from him and drank.  
  
"Good. Now you really ought to get into bed," he said. "You need to rest."  
  
"Can I make a phone call?" she asked guardedly.  
  
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "I'm afraid not. For the time being, you'll need to be incognito."  
  
"A captive." Her voice was flat.  
  
"Nonsense. A patient."  
  
She didn't reply, but her disbelief was clearly reflected in her eyes.  
  
"Now rest," he said, lifting the bag to escort her back to her bed.  
  
She went along willingly enough, but Dr. Lecter supposed she would be taking stock of the situation once he was gone. He could tell by the way her eyes flicked around the room, noting the window, which he had already nailed shut, the door, the mirrors on the walls.  
  
He had a means to deal with some of that, though. After settling her in bed and warning her to leave the catheter alone, he pushed a low bookcase from against the wall to where she could reach it.  
  
"I obtained copies of your medical textbooks, so that you'd have something to read," he said, indicating them.  
  
"Thank you," she said emotionlessly, her eyes flicking over him.  
  
"And please don't try to wander, Erin."  
  
"I won't," she promised dutifully, although Dr. Lecter knew she would at least try.  
  
"I'll leave you for a bit," he said. "Stay in bed, if you please."  
  
Dr. Lecter left the room, closing the door behind him. He didn't bother locking it. She had nowhere to go, after all. He returned to his study, where he began to draw out several needles.  
  
He had hoped – foolishly – that she might be tractable enough for it not to require this. Still, the girl was quick, and he could not blame her for believing she was in danger. After all, he was supposedly insane.  
  
He padded into his study, where a television sat incongruously on his desk. He had installed a hidden camera in a cavity of the wall in her room. Sitting down on the comfortable padded chair, he turned on the TV. A black and white image of her room appeared on the screen. She was out of bed, holding the bag in one hand.  
  
He grinned. Typical. She did not approach the door, believing it would be locked or alarmed. But she did try the window and entered the small bathroom. She moved a few of the pictures framed on the wall, but simply glanced up curiously at the mirror it was hidden behind. Dr. Lecter had foreseen that she might try to investigate it and had placed it high on the wall where she could not reach.  
  
After inventorying the contents of the room, she returned to the bed, hanging up the bag on the side. She took out a big, heavy book from the bookcase and settled in with it. Dr. Lecter decided to give her a bit of time, in case she was thinking of using the book as a bludgeon. He walked out onto the back deck, where Erin would be able to see him from her window, if so she chose. The back yard was fenced in, and in the corner of the yard was a small gardening shed. Dr. Lecter walked to the shed and opened the door. Inside were the typical lawn and gardening supplies a homeowner might need: a lawnmower, some grass seed, a shovel, a rake, a garden hose, and several such things. The body of the donor was buried in a shallow grave in the dirt floor of the shed.  
  
He returned to the house and sat down behind his desk. Checking the monitor, he discovered she was still in bed reading. He could tell from her body language that she was still nervous – terrified might be a better word, he thought. She flinched at any sound. It was time to end this, he thought. He collected a syringe and walked towards her room.  
  
When he entered, she dropped the book immediately and recoiled. He supposed her travels around the room had tired her out. Her eyes locked fearfully on him the minute he entered the room, but she said nothing. 


	5. Doors

"I need to give you an injection," he said, holding up the syringe. Her eyes tracked it.  
  
"What is it?" she asked fearfully.  
  
"Immunosuppressants," he answered, although it was not so. "You do know transplanted organs require that."  
  
He took an alcohol wipe and wiped a small spot on her arm. She watched him with trepidation. When he brought the needle up, she grasped his wrist.  
  
"What is that?" she asked again.  
  
"I told you. Immunosuppressants."  
  
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked then. Dr. Lecter supposed that was closer to what was on her mind.  
  
"Because you need it," he said, a note of impatience entering her voice. "You must keep in mind what I've already done to you."  
  
She shrank back, but released his wrist and allowed him to give her the shot. Dr. Lecter performed a few basic physical exams while he waited for the injection to take effect. Within ten minutes or so, it had. Her eyes were half-lidded and she was slow and logy.  
  
Dr. Lecter was pleased. The drug was a major hypnotic. He wished that such drugs had existed when he was practicing psychiatry; they did much of his work for him. Looking down at his drugged and relaxed charge, he began to whisper gently to her. At first she answered him back a few times and fought him; the fear was still very present and very real. And, Dr. Lecter had to admit, very justified. Once he was able to convince her that she was in no danger currently or in the future, he was surprised at how easily she went under. He suspected there might be interesting things to learn.  
  
Finally, once he had gotten her into deep hypnosis, he began his real work.  
  
"Does your back hurt, Erin?" he asked. His tone was paternal and concerned.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When you feel my breath, your back will stop hurting. No pain at all will bother you." He leaned forward and pursed his lips as if to kiss her. Instead, he exhaled sharply. She jerked.  
  
"Do you feel pain now?"  
  
"No."  
  
He was satisfied. Now, he began to pry a bit more at the doors of her mind. He discovered, tellingly, that she had lost her father as a girl. He mulled a bit over the coincidence and asked if her father had been a policeman. She gave him a vague smile and said no, he had been an electrician. He discovered that everything she had she had been forced to work for; that she resented those classmates of hers who had everything given to them. She hated the coffee shop and thought the manager she worked for wanted to get in her pants. Several older men frequented the coffee shop to check out her body and tried to see if she would see them on the side. She did not like that, and had thought he might be one of them. Dr. Lecter assured her he was not interested in a carnal relationship.  
  
He brought her up a bit, so that she could see and think.  
  
"Now once you leave here," he said, "there are people who will want to talk to you. Some of them are your enemies. You must tell them the wrong things. You must not appear to lie, but do not give them what they seek."  
  
"Why should I lie?" she asked.  
  
Dr. Lecter handed her a black and white picture. "Open your eyes, please." She obeyed, looking down at the middle-aged man with the thin, pinched face in the photograph.  
  
"That man's name is Jack Crawford," Dr. Lecter told her. "He is an FBI agent. He will want you to tell him about me; he will expect you to tell him that my name is Hannibal Lecter."  
  
"Hannibal the Cannibal," she mused.  
  
"Do you know of him?"  
  
"From the papers. He ate people in Baltimore a long time ago. Then he escaped." Her tone indicated no realization she was speaking of the man sitting beside her bed.  
  
Dr. Lecter hadn't expected her to realize his true identity, but was still pleased with himself.  
  
"You must not tell him," he said. "Jack Crawford has been to your coffee shop before; he has kept a close eye on your body."  
  
She didn't respond. All right, he thought.  
  
"Jack Crawford wants you to work the rest of your life in that coffee bar," he said. "He doesn't want you to finish medical school. He would like to force you into poverty so that you'd be forced to accept his advances. He wants you to be forced to invite him into your bed."  
  
Erin twitched. "Why? What did I do?"  
  
"It's not what you did," he explained. "Jack Crawford is a dangerous, obsessive man. He'll try to make you name Hannibal Lecter as your assailant. He'll have the kidneys taken out of you and given to someone else. Then he'll talk to the registrar at your medical school to have you removed."  
  
"Asshole," Erin mumbled. Although Dr. Lecter normally disliked profanity, he couldn't help but find it amusing under these circumstances. The edifice he was trying to build in her mind – just a small trap door, really – was taking form.  
  
"But you can stop him, Erin."  
  
"How?"  
  
"When he asks you who did this to you, tell him that it was Dr. Robert Lawson." He handed her a picture of an older, bearded man with glasses. This actually was the late Dr. Lawson, before Dr. Lecter had killed him and buried him at a highway rest stop. "Memorize this picture, Erin. Memorize everything about it."  
  
Erin studied the picture for several minutes. Once Dr. Lecter was satisfied, he took the picture back.  
  
"Very good," he said approvingly. "Now, there is someone else you should know about. She is also an FBI agent. Her name is Clarice Starling."  
  
"Starling," Erin slurred back.  
  
"Yes. She's not much older than you are. A striking woman with brown hair." He sighed, consciously refraining from telling his drugged and hypnotized charge about how striking she was.  
  
"Is she against me too?"  
  
"No. Agent Starling is not your enemy, Erin. But she works in the service of those who are. She'll tell you I'm dangerous. Sbe'll mean it well, and she'll be very sympathetic to you, and you'll be tempted to tell her everything she wants to know. But it's not the right time."  
  
Erin nodded.  
  
Dr. Lecter continued the session until dinnertime, when he brought her as far up as the drugs would allow. Then he brought in the wheelchair he had purchased, lifted her carefully into it, and rolled her into the kitchen. For dinner tonight, he had cooked lamb chops. Not quite up to his usual standards, but these past few days had kept him busy.  
  
She picked at her food, he noted. It didn't surprise him; she had been through a lot. He made a note to look up the drugs he had given her to see if any of them had an anorexic effect. She was still sleepy from the drugs and did not make much conversation. 


	6. Routine

For the next several days, Dr. Lecter followed a routine with his charge. He kept her under the influence of sedatives and hypnotics – it made her much easier to manage. Her first full day under the drug regimen was not successful – he misestimated the dose and she was a zombie for most of the day. He changed the dosage a few times and tried different medications, so that she could still hold a conversation with him. With the drugs, she was no longer terrified of him, and the hypnotic suggestions he implanted served to reinforce her perception of him as a caring protector. He removed the catheter on the third day and encouraged her to begin walking.  
  
In the morning, she studied the texts he had gotten her. Dr. Lecter took an interest in her medical education; she was quick, but inexperienced. He quizzed her on what they read for that day. It proved to him to be an interesting refresher on his own medical school years so long ago. Some of what he had learned was now deprecated, with more modern solutions in its place. He was chagrined at this.  
  
He attempted to interest her in literature, but to no avail. She found Shakespeare boring and expressed no interest in any of the classics. Any of the books he offered her not specifically medical in content ended up unopened by her bed. Once she told him she would prefer to have the catheter reinserted rather than have more of these books assigned to her to read, he gave up on introducing her to literature.  
  
She took a bit more interest in classical music. At first, she simply played CDs while she studied. Later she began to ask who the composers were and expressed more interest in them. This pleased him, and he introduced her to more Chopin and Bach, which she preferred. Dr. Lecter promised her that he would play for her the selections she liked best.  
  
After morning studies, he would serve lunch and they would chat leisurely over whatever he had prepared. In the afternoons were her hypnosis sessions. Dr. Lecter's interest in the hypnosis was twofold: to increase his knowledge of her mind and personality, and to successfully prevent her from identifying him to the FBI. He steadily convinced her that Jack Crawford was a dangerous man, not to be trusted, and that Clarice Starling, while well intentioned, was in his service and could not be trusted with the truth either. One day, he sincerely hoped, he might be able to have Clarice and Erin at the same table, but such things would not happen for a long time.  
  
On the sixth day, a package arrived for Dr. Lecter. He knew what it was when he saw the return address. He glanced into the sitting room, where Erin was curled up napping on the couch. In a display of good- humored rebellion, she had abandoned her studies an hour before. Proudly, she had informed him that she was going to be a slug today and did not care if he disapproved. That was for the best, he thought. He took the package into his study and opened it.  
  
The package contained his false papers. A completely new identity – driver's license, passport, social security card, credit cards. Now he would be able to leave the country undisturbed. Canada was not far and he could catch a flight from Toronto to Buenos Aires. From then, Dr. Lecter had not decided, although he had thought of Italy more and more. Rome, perhaps, or Florence.  
  
Dr. Lecter felt no guilt about leaving his charge. She needed to resume her own life, and from a medical point of view, she was certainly ready to go home. After a week of hypnosis, he was fairly confident that she would not be able to identify him to the police, or to the FBI. It would take a very skilled professional who knew exactly what he had done to be able to unlock the psychological locks he had put on her.  
  
He prepared a syringe and walked carefully to the sitting room. He observed his sleeping charge before him, bent, and slipped the needle into her arm. The needle was quite thin, and she barely stirred. He had a few hours now before she woke up. Even if she woke up before he got there, the doors were still all locked, and he doubted she would try escape at this point anyway.  
  
He went out to his Cadillac and drove to the city. He rather liked to shop. He dropped by a department store and bought the best china he could find in two place settings. He decided to stick with the cookware in the house. He was able to find acceptable silverware – not his preference, but that was regrettably a recurring theme in his life.  
  
He then sought out a women's clothing store. Politely, he spoke with the proprietress and explained what he wanted. He told her that he wanted to purchase a dress and shoes for his niece. He provided the woman with Erin's measurements and was offered several choices. One appealed to him the most, so he chose it. After settling on appropriate shoes, he packed up his purchases and drove home.  
  
Erin was still asleep when he arrived. That was for the best. When he woke her up for the afternoon hypnosis session, she didn't seem to notice that he had been gone.  
  
Over dinner, he smiled across the table at her.  
  
"I have something to tell you," he said gently. 


	7. Fine Dining

"What?"  
  
"I'll be discharging you tomorrow. After dinner."  
  
She stared blankly at him. Dr. Lecter made a note to check her medication.  
  
"Home? Medical school? You do remember your life before here, don't you?"  
  
She blushed and looked down. "Well, yes. I do. But…"  
  
But you have to think about it, with all the drugs in your system, he thought.  
  
"But nothing. You're free to go. But there is one thing I would ask…"  
  
"Ask what?"  
  
"I should like you to dine with me."  
  
"Isn't that what we're doing now?" she asked, not without reason.  
  
"Not quite. You see, I am fond of finer dining than a simple meal prepared over a kitchen table."  
  
She grinned at him. "You want a dinner date."  
  
"I suppose so. Will you dine with me?"  
  
She actually blushed. "Sure, OK."  
  
Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow in annoyance. "Do not say, 'Sure'."  
  
She raised her palms in mock surrender. "Very well. I'd be honored, Dr. Lawson. Thank you so much."  
  
"Better."  
  
The next day passed much as its predecessors, until it was time for the afternoon hypnosis session. Dr. Lecter had decided to forgo it, since the post-hypnotic suggestions were as good as they were going to get. Instead, he gave her a few injections, which was normal. The contents were not. She would be able to speak and converse, but would be drugged enough that she would not realize what had happened or try to flee.  
  
Once he had given her the new series of drugs, he offered her a large white dress box and a smaller box.  
  
"They both should fit," he said, and then left the room to allow her to change in privacy. Erin pried open the larger box to discover a fine gown, made of cream-colored silk. It was strapless, simple, and quite elegant. Wrapped in tissue paper below it were appropriate undergarments. Under the influence of the drugs, it took her a while, but she managed to change into the dress. The smaller box contained simple white pumps, which she slipped on and immediately tottered in, as she rarely wore heels. The dress fell to her ankles, so she felt comfortable in it. She attempted to braid her hair, but found that her fingers would not work as dexterously as they had in the past. She settled for pinning it up.  
  
A knock came at the door.  
  
"Come in," she said.  
  
Dr. Lecter entered, dressed in a simple tuxedo. He nodded elegantly at her.  
  
"You look lovely," he said.  
  
"Thank you. So do you," she said.  
  
"Thank you," he echoed. He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. He offered her his arm as he navigated her into the dining room. It was easily the most elegant room of the house. The table was built of oak. Silver candlesticks glittered in the center of the table. The head and foot of the table were set with the china Dr. Lecter had purchased. A Monet print hung on one wall.  
  
They walked into the dining room together. Dr. Lecter took a moment to realize that the old habit of offering a woman his arm was necessary in this case: she was noticeably wobbly. Perhaps the shoes, more likely the drugs. A shame, he thought, perhaps he had misestimated the proper amounts. Still, she was reasonably coherent and would be able to provide dinner conversation.  
  
He pulled out her chair for her and gestured for her to sit. She was elegant in the gown, he thought, even if she was drugged. Carefully he brought out the first course. It was a French onion soup, with gourmet cheese baked carefully atop the bowl. Erin tried it, complimented it, and ate enough of it to satisfy Dr. Lecter. He wanted her to save her appetite for the main course, anyway.  
  
"You shouldn't have gone to all this effort," Erin said suddenly.  
  
Dr. Lecter tilted his head curiously. "Whyever not? I wanted to."  
  
"Well…I mean…," she made a balancing gesture with her hands as she groped for words.  
  
"You've done everything. I feel like I should have done something to contribute too."  
  
"Don't worry about that," Dr. Lecter said as he took her soup bowl. "Just enjoy the meal. I enjoy hospitality myself, you needn't feel selfish."  
  
He went back into the kitchen, where he had the main course in a bowl on a serving cart he had found in the house. He rolled it into the dining room. The fragrant smell of cooked meat came from the silver bowl on his cart.  
  
"That smells nice," Erin said pleasantly. "What is it?"  
  
"Sautés reins," Dr. Lecter answered, smiling. "My own recipe." 


	8. A gourmet meal

The main course of sautés reins is not a French dish. Dr. Lecter had simply translated the name so that his charge would not know what they were. Despite her previous protests, Erin had indeed contributed to the meal. After Dr. Lecter had removed her kidneys, he had refrigerated them until the night before, soaked them overnight in distilled water flavored with a bit of lemon, cut them into medallions, and sautèed them in Charante butter. Then he had sprinkled flour over them and carefully blended in the richest milk he could find. When the cream sauce was ready, he blended in Harvey's Bristol Cream sherry. Although she had been diagnosed with kidney disease, Dr. Lecter had been unable to find any indication that they would be inedible.  
  
He spooned several medallions onto her plate, and then gave her some of the side dish he had prepared – a handmade spinach mousselline. Next, he filled her glass one-third full with of Bâtard-Montrachet from her birth year. Dr. Lecter was fond of giving women fine wine matched to their birth year – it seemed to him a tasteful and personalized gift. Only after serving himself did he sit down. He did not begin eating immediately. It was pleasant enough to watch her. Dr. Lecter's life as a fugitive did not often allow him the opportunity to dine with women.  
  
She cut a medallion carefully and lifted it to her lips. Dr. Lecter smiled externally. Internally he kept a close watch to see if she would detect anything out of the ordinary. She tried a bite, tasted it, chewed, and swallowed. A puzzled look crossed her face.  
  
"Do you like it?" he asked, enjoying the smear of butter on her lip.  
  
"Yes…it's different, though. But I usually don't eat,…" she trailed off, searching for words. "Gourmet food." She chuckled. "Usually it's ramen noodles or pizza for me."  
  
Dr. Lecter nodded, smiling. Behind the smile, his mind was busily calculating: her body weight; the amounts of the various drugs he had given her; how they interacted with alcohol; and if there would be some problem arising from that. He did not think there would be, but decided to limit her to one glass only. She might ramble, but he would forgive her that.  
  
He waited until she had eaten four or five more medallions before starting his own. The taste was not bad. Normally, kidneys were best served fresh, but he knew a great deal about how to properly keep meat. And the chance to dine in an elegant setting was well worth it.  
  
"Actually, I like this," Erin said. "What is it again?"  
  
"Sautés reins," Dr. Lecter repeated gently.  
  
"French food."  
  
"One could say," Dr. Lecter agreed. "Although this sample comes to us by way of Ireland."  
  
"I'm Irish," Erin piped up. "By ancestry, I mean."  
  
Dr. Lecter already knew this from a hypnosis session, which is why he had said it. "Do you know where from?"  
  
"I'm not sure," she confessed. "Dublin, I think. Noplace real fun."  
  
"Dublin's a fine city," he said."  
  
"Never been there. Couldn't afford it." She giggled.  
  
Dr. Lecter told her about his travels in Europe before, neglecting to explain that they were before his incarceration. He was tossing around the idea of returning and told her so. As he talked and she asked him questions about Europe, they slowly finished. Once Erin had eaten her entire kidney, and Dr. Lecter the other, he served dessert. It was a nice chocolate torte that Dr. Lecter had purchased at a nearby bakery. She quite liked it, as he suspected she would. After that, he offered her a cappucino and rose from the table.  
  
"Oh no," she said, and stood herself.  
  
"No cappucino?" he asked, slightly alarmed.  
  
"No, you sit down. You've done everything. I am going to make the cappucino," she said. She favored him with a slightly woozy smile. With that, she marched through the kitchen door to Dr. Lecter's espresso machine and stared at it carefully for a moment or two.  
  
Dr. Lecter remained seated, but kept an eye on her. She didn't seem to be having trouble with the machine; she reached experimentally for the filter basket latch and managed to unlatch it. With the speed of great experience, she dumped it, spooned in more, and started it brewing. As the smell of espresso began to fill the kitchen, she returned to the dining room and seemed very pleased with herself.  
  
"Just a few minutes," she explained. "That's a consumer machine."  
  
"I see. Is it worse than the ones you use?"  
  
"Not worse. Consumer grade, I guess. The machines we use are heavy duty. Built for restaurants, you know."  
  
"I suppose I wouldn't need one like that," Dr. Lecter said. He then stood up. "But I do need to put the dishes away, and that I will have to insist you not help with. Your back, you know."  
  
She blinked and nodded.  
  
Dr. Lecter gathered up his own plate and setting, put it on his cart, and then collected hers. He rolled it into the kitchen and placed the dishes in the sink. He frothed milk for the cappucino and poured two cups. He brought them directly into the sitting room. After he finished with the kitchen chores, he helped Erin from her chair and guided her into the sitting room. The house included a piano, which had been out of tune when he arrived. He sat her down on a seat near the piano, so she would be able to better appreciate it. It was a padded, comfortable chair. Dr. Lecter had selected it deliberately. 


	9. After-dinner music

Once Erin was settled in with her cappucino, he sat down at the piano and began to play. He settled on some Mozart to begin with. He played well, although a bit stiffly in his left hand. He doubted she would have been able to pick it up. For all her charms, she was not able to afford much of the finer things in life, and her tastes in music did not run to the classical. As the music came to a close, Dr. Lecter found himself queerly but sourly convinced that she would express her satisfaction with a Wow.  
  
She surprised him. "You're an excellent player," she said. "You must've been doing it a long time."  
  
"Thank you, I have." Dr. Lecter was unreasonably pleased that she had not said Wow. He noted that she had barely touched her cappucino while he had played.  
  
"Where did you learn to play?" she pursued.  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled tolerantly. "As a boy, like most people, I suppose. When I grew up, I had a harpsichord as well as the standard clavier."  
  
"You stuck with it. You're very good." She sipped at the cup and sang softly. "Dort am Klavier, lauschte ich ihr, und wenn ihr Spiel begann, hielt ich den Atmen an,"  
  
He tilted his head and smiled, surprised. "Ich wusste nicht, dass du Deutsch koentest."  
  
She blushed prettily, and glanced down at the carpet. "I don't speak German."  
  
"Where is that from? Sounds like a poem of some type."  
  
Her voice was almost inaudible. "It's a song."  
  
"By whom? I'm not familiar with it."  
  
She shook her head once and continued to look down.  
  
"Oh, come now, who wrote it?"  
  
Reluctantly she breathed, "Rammstein."  
  
"I'm not familiar with that musician. Tell me about him."  
  
"It's a band," she clarified. "But…it's heavy metal. It's not…," she trailed off, obviously embarrassed.  
  
"Not what?" Dr. Lecter prodded.  
  
"Not cultured," she said, raising her voice to normal speaking volume. "It's not like Mozart or Brahms or Nietzsche or Kierkegaard or anything like that. It's a heavy metal band and they sing in German. And they set things on fire in their concerts."  
  
"Fire. Really." Dr. Lecter was noncommittal.  
  
"I shouldn't have mentioned it. I feel like such a peasant," she said miserably.  
  
Privately, Dr. Lecter agreed. Had she been completely lucid, he might have said so. But she wasn't, and was about to become much less so. He refrained for the same reason he had refrained from physically overpowering her or toying with her during her hypnosis sessions: there simply was nothing dignified in tormenting his charge while she was unable to defend herself. It was rude, pure and simple.  
  
"Not at all," he said. "How is your cappucino? You've barely touched it."  
  
"It's fine," she said, and took a long swallow from it. This was the result Dr. Lecter had hoped for.  
  
"Do those beans meet with your professional approval?" he asked gently.  
  
She smiled, eyed the brown liquid below the cream, and took another sip. "These beans are much better than anything the shop would buy," she pronounced. "Tom likes nice stuff, but these are way too expensive."  
  
"Excellent," Dr. Lecter said, and began to play, a Chopin number he was fond of. He concentrated on his playing, only glancing over from time to time to see if Erin was still watching. She continued sipping the cappucino as he played, although he noticed she would put it down and rub her temples from time to time.  
  
Once he was finished with the Chopin, he glanced over at her again. Her eyes were half-lidded and she was swaying noticeably in the chair.  
  
"Is something wrong?" he asked pleasantly.  
  
"No…I…that wine, must've gone right to my head….I….", she murmured. She slumped back against the upholstered chair and her eyes closed. Dr. Lecter waited a minute or two to see if she would stir. When she did not, he pushed back the piano bench and strode towards her.  
  
"It wasn't the wine," he said gently. "It was the cappucino, I'm afraid."  
  
Erin did not hear him; she was unconscious. Dr. Lecter lifted her empty cup and took it into the kitchen. It contained not only gourmet cappucino, but enough sedatives to put her out for at least twelve hours.  
  
Dr. Lecter had work to do now. For just a moment, he entertained the possibility of simply slitting her throat while she lay before him. But no; she was his charge, and this was his last responsibility to her. And besides, he wanted to know if the experiment was truly a success or not.  
  
He pulled on a set of latex gloves first. Then he wheeled in her wheelchair and carefully lifted her into it. Two Hermes scarves tied across her chest served to keep her reasonably upright. He walked back to his supply closet off the kitchen and removed some spray cleaner and a sponge. He began to clean the house as thoroughly as he could, polishing and cleaning any item he might have touched. From his study to his bedroom to Erin's room to the sitting room, he scrubbed, cleaned, and polished. 


	10. Final Responsibilities

It took a few hours, but when he was done, he was satisfied. The smell of ammonia and cleanser hung heavy in the air. He returned to the sitting room where Erin slumped in her wheelchair.  
  
"You don't mind the aroma, do you?" he asked sarcastically as he took the grips of the chair. Carefully, he wheeled her out to the Cadillac. He placed her carefully on the passenger seat, much as she had arrived. The wheelchair folded up and disappeared into the roomy trunk of the Cadillac without problem. He drove into the city. The Cadillac's big engine made for easy acceleration. Despite himself, he was beginning to like the car.  
  
He left the expressway and drove through the streets easily until he found what he was looking for. The neon sign advertising fresh-brewed gourmet coffee was off; the coffee bar was silent. He pulled the car around into the alley, walked around to the front, and unlocked the door with Erin's keys. He was pleased to note that the burglar alarm code had not changed. Moving quickly, he opened the back door, got Erin and her wheelchair out of his car, and brought her into the coffee shop. In the cream dress, she was a radiance in the dark shop. The store was closed, but even so, he knew that he would need to leave quickly before someone noticed the young woman in a dinner gown slumped in a wheelchair.  
  
He dropped an envelope into Erin's lap. Now there was only one thing left to do, so Dr. Lecter did it. He reached under Erin's chin and raised her face to his.  
  
"Ciao, Erin," he said. "The experiment is ended. Well, my part, anyway. Heaven only knows when we'll see each other again."  
  
He leaned forward as if to kiss her and then stopped. He thought a bit more. Then he decided and went ahead and did it, his lips pressing against hers. Her eyes fluttered and she made a brief sound as if stirring. Dr. Lecter was surprised.  
  
He turned then, drew himself up to his full height, and took the telephone off the wall. The sound of three digits beeped in the receiver as he dialed 911. Without another word, he left via the back door and got into his car. He maneuvered through the alleyway, turned right, then right again. He could see the front of the coffee shop now.  
  
Without knowing why, he pulled the Cadillac into a parking space a block or so up the street. He could not see her from his viewpoint; the windows of the coffee bar faced the wrong way. He knew that he should not be doing this. He knew the smartest thing to do would be to leave. But something urged him to stay.  
  
As he waited, he thought. This whole trip had been an exercise in living with substitutes, often below his standards. Well by any objective standard, but below his own standards. A Cadillac in place of a Jaguar. A house in the country in place of a house on the river. And, of course, Erin in place of Clarice.  
  
But was Erin below his standards? Was she merely a pale copy of Clarice?  
  
No, he decided. She had served him well as a lab rat, for his experiment. But he could not compare her to Starling and judge her worse. They were two women navigating their respective bureaucracies. There had been a spark with her, just as with Clarice. Clarice had been his student; Erin had been his charge. It was different, but not worse.  
  
Perhaps ten minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up in front of the shop. The police officer in it jumped out and looked into the windows of the coffee bar. He spoke into his radio. He banged on the door with his flashlight. A few minutes later, another patrol car and an ambulance pulled up behind it. After conferring with each other, the police broke open the door.  
  
Dr. Lecter watched silently from a block away. The Cadillac was completely dark; he did not want to call attention to himself by turning on the interior lights. He simply sat and watched as they entered the building. He wondered briefly what they would think when they got there.  
  
He sat up as they brought out his charge on a stretcher. His hands flexed on the wheel as he watched them wheel her unconscious form into the back of the ambulance and take off with her, sirens wailing. Fools. There was no medical emergency, the note in the envelope made it exceedingly clear that she would wake up on her own without any problem in a few hours. Still, the foolish medical establishment had to do what it deemed proper. Even though he'd done it better.  
  
The ambulance left. The police remained to fill out whatever they needed to do. Dr. Lecter had seen what he needed to, so he started the Cadillac, pulled from the space, and drove into the night. 


	11. Confusion

Clarice Starling's pager went off in the busy main hallway of the FBI headquarters building. She glanced down at it and blinked. The number was Jack Crawford's cellular phone. Quickly, she scurried to her cubicle and dialed the number.  
  
"Hi, Starling." Crawford's tone was all business. "You busy?"  
  
"Not really, sir. I just have to write a 302 on the drug raid on Tuesday."  
  
"I heard about that. Nice work. Listen, I need you to put that on hold and get out here."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"It's a bizarre story. Local police called us in – it was a kidnapping, but there are some weird parts. Unknown organ donation." He chuckled sardonically. "I think they called us in because they were hoping we'd be able to make heads or tails out of it. I'm going to have the case file digitized and sent out to you."  
  
"I'll be right here if you need me," Starling affirmed. This might be her best chance to get into Behavioral Sciences permanently. Inwardly, she wondered why she was being called in. Crawford answered that for her as if he had plucked the thought from her head.  
  
"Listen, Starling, I got something to fess up now. I don't want you to get mad."  
  
"Okay," she said, her accent turning the word into something exotic.  
  
"The victim is not talking to me. Froze up the minute I came in. I've tried the other two agents I brought with me – Witt and Meyer, I think you know them – and nothing. She's not doped up and she's cooperated with the hospital. So I'm kind of hoping another young woman might get her to open up. Switch the face, you know. Take it easy on her, though." He sounded guilty, as if admitting Starling was indeed a young woman was some sort of crime.  
  
In fact, Starling was not offended. She had dealt with interrogations before. It wasn't offensive that sometimes one officer might make someone freeze up while a different officer could get them spilling their guts out. It was fact. And Starling was perfectly willing to kid-glove a victim into getting a statement if she had to. It wasn't her preferred approach, but she had developed the ability.  
  
"I'll be happy to help," she said. In a lighter tone, she added, "I'll be very gentle. No broken bones. I promise."  
  
"OK. Great. Drop down to Behavioral Sciences to pick up a copy of the case file, then get to the airport and get yourself here. I need you here ASAP."  
  
Starling did as she was told. Behavioral Sciences was in the basement of the building, but still she was thrilled to have the opportunity. It was certainly better than running around Newark with a shotgun. The secretary there already had her name, wished her a good morning, and gave her a manila folder and a plane ticket.  
  
"Get a move on, Agent Starling," she chirped. "Mr. Crawford wanted you on the first flight I could get you. Your flight leaves in half an hour."  
  
Starling nodded, thanked her, and hauled ass for the door. Fortunately, she was able to cadge a ride from a friendly D.C. patrolman who had a thing for the FBI, and made it to the airport in record time. Airport security slowed her down a bit, nervous about letting a rushed and admittedly armed woman onto the plane, but her FBI credentials got her through that.  
  
On the plane, she actually had a moment to look at the case file. Kidnapping of a 22 year old woman. Reported missing nine days ago after she hadn't come home by her roommate. Appeared heavily drugged back in her place of employment a week later. Victim confused, cooperative with local authorities, stated she had received an illicit kidney transplant from her kidnapper. Incisions on her back, plus the fact that she no longer appeared to need dialysis, appeared to bear this out. Blood tests revealed standard medical dosages of various immunosuppressants, as well as high levels of sedatives and hypnotics. Starling wasn't a biochemist, but she knew a bit about drugs, and whomever had done this knew damn well what they were doing.  
  
Starling was puzzled. Despite the urban legends, organ thefts just didn't happen. But somehow they had. Weirder still, they didn't have any idea where the kidneys had come from. Erin Lander, the victim, was apparently the recipient, not the involuntary donor. She had tentatively ID'ed the perp as a Dr. Robert Lawson, who had seen her at the coffee shop she worked in. The detective who had talked to her had noted that he had some questions about the ID, as she had been fuzzy on some details but very clear on others.  
  
In attempting to make sense of her story, the local police department had called in Behavioral Sciences. Starling figured that was because they had no idea what to do with a real, honest-to-God organ theft case. Then Jack Crawford had gone out himself to have a look, and it looked like hell had broken loose.  
  
The victim panicked on seeing him. She became hysterical, refused to speak to him at all, and had to be sedated. Crawford's notes indicated that it seemed she was antagonistic to him personally, since she was calmer (but no more cooperative) with the other two agents he had brought with him. She couldn't help but feel bad for him for that: Jack Crawford was very good at what he did, but he was not a cruel man. It must've stung him to be personally rejected like that. But Starling saw something in that, something he might have missed: did the perp know Crawford? Had he prepped her? Or did she know Crawford from somewhere else? Was there someone else she was confusing him with?  
  
Starling jotted down these notes as the plane banked and began to land. At the airport, she walked straight to the rental counter. Crawford's efficient secretaries had arranged for a car as well as a flight. She asked for and got directions to the hospital. The car was a dark gray Lumina. It was comfortable and had reasonable performance, but was nothing like her Mustang.  
  
At the hospital, she flashed her ID and was directed to the floor Erin Lander was on. When she stepped from the elevator, she saw Jack Crawford sitting on a bench nearby. He looked exhausted. When he saw her, he brightened and stood up.  
  
"Hi, Starling," she said. "Sorry to drag you out here on such short notice."  
  
"No problem, sir," she said. "So what can you tell me?"  
  
He shrugged. "You've already read the case file, right."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I talked to one of the doctors who examined her," Crawford said.  
  
"Anything interesting?"  
  
"Yep. Erin Lander suffered from kidney disease as a young child. She had required kidney dialysis for many years. When they examined her, they discovered two incisions along her mid to lower back. They found two kidneys…but they were in perfectly good health and functioning perfectly. They were recently transplanted into her, probably within the past few days."  
  
"By a surgeon?" asked Starling.  
  
"That's what's weird. Well, the whole thing is weird, actually. Kidney transplants are normally implanted in the abdomen, where they're easier to get at. Erin Lander's transplant was right where the kidneys normally lie. That suggests it wasn't a trained transplant surgeon. Also, the incisions…" he paused. "The incisions are curved in a 'f' shape on each side. That's not normal, either, and there's no reason to do it that way."  
  
"Curved?" Starling asked intently.  
  
"Like a violin. But the stitches,…" he trailed off. "The stitches were perfect. Veins, arteries, tubes…everything works just fine."  
  
"Weird."  
  
"Yeah. Everything about this case is weird."  
  
"Any ideas?"  
  
He shrugged. "Unless you can get more out of her than the local detectives did, all I can think is that this was some kind of dry run for an organ-theft ring." He turned and began to walk down the hall. Starling followed him. He stopped at a door. On it was a small placard reading, "Lander, E. 


	12. Interrogation

Before they had a chance to enter, an older man in surgical scrubs came out. He frowned strenuously at them.  
  
"Agent Crawford, are you sending in another agent?"  
  
Crawford smiled tightly. "Yes, doctor. This is Agent Starling, I'd like her to have a talk-"  
  
The doctor cut him off. "Agent Crawford, you have already sent in three agents to interrogate Miss Lander. Now we try to be cooperative, but enough's enough. She's been through a lot, and I don't need your goons making my patient hysterical."  
  
Starling read his name off the ID clipped to the pocket of his scrubs. "Dr. Rhodes, I'm sure you mean only the best for your patient, but there's been a crime committed here."  
  
The doctor focused his attention on her. "And who would you be?"  
  
"Clarice Starling. FBI." She flashed her credentials. The doctor was not impressed. "I flew in just to talk with Miss Lander."  
  
"Well, Agent Starling, I'm sure you think you're helping, but let's not lose sight of something here. This guy comes in," he jabbed a finger, "and has one of our patients screaming and hysterical inside of five minutes. You've had three chances. She doesn't want to talk to you."  
  
"She hasn't said that," Starling pointed out.  
  
"Yeah, well, this is a hospital. We take care of people here when they can't take care of themselves. And that includes protecting them from overbearing cops."  
  
"Dr. Rhodes, look. I'm not here to make life harder on her…well, than it has been already. I just want the chance to talk to her for a little bit. Now I promise you, if she gets stressed out and wants me to leave, I'll leave." She turned to Crawford. "Do you have the address for the local U.S. attorney's office?"  
  
Crawford nodded, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a card. He gave it to the angry physician.  
  
"You're more than welcome to call that number," Starling said, "but all I want to do is get a statement. I won't get her worked up. I promise."  
  
"That's what the last three said."  
  
"Or," Starling continued, "I can call that number myself and get a warrant on you for obstruction of justice, arrest you, and have you taken downtown. As a federal crime, that is punishable by fines and imprisonment."  
  
Dr. Rhodes gawped openly at her.  
  
"You can't do that."  
  
"I most certainly can, sir," she said. "Now, again, I'll go real easy and nice, I won't get her worked up, and if she does, I'll leave her be, but I am going to go in there."  
  
The doctor glared icily at her. "All right then. Go. But so help me God, if anything happens, I'll have an official complaint in on you."  
  
Starling kept her pleasant smile on while she opened the door and entered. Erin Lander's room was private. She was sitting up in bed. Her eyes were on Starling's the minute she came through the door. Starling sized her up.  
  
Erin was small, a few inches shorter than Starling, although it was hard to tell while she was in bed. Her color looked good, but she seemed apprehensive when Starling came in. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail. An IV ran into the back of her hand. She didn't seem drugged – Starling had dealt with people under the influence of psychotropics before, and Erin's eyes were too alert and aware.  
  
Starling smiled. It felt a bit more real than the rictus she had summoned with the doctor.  
  
"Hi," she said.  
  
"Who are you?" Erin asked.  
  
"My name's Clarice Starling," she answered. "I'm with the FBI." She saw Erin flinch a bit. Regulation mandated she needed to flash her ID, but she decided not to bother for now.  
  
"What do you want?" Erin asked guardedly.  
  
"Just to ask you a few questions," Starling replied. She smiled and opened her hands. "Now I understand there were a couple of problems before, and I just want to say, I'm not going to try to freak you out. If you don't want to answer my questions, that's OK."  
  
"You can ask," Erin said warily.  
  
"Okay, great," Starling said, still smiling. "I do need to say a few legal things first. First off, you have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you without cost."  
  
"The other agents said that already," Erin said, bored.  
  
"Okay. Okay. I just need to make sure, that's all."  
  
"So what questions did you have?" Erin asked.  
  
Starling took out the tape recorder. "Mind if I tape this?"  
  
Erin shook her head.  
  
"Can you tell me what happened?"  
  
Erin shrugged. "Some guy kidnapped me and put new kidneys in me."  
  
"Who was that?"  
  
"Dr.Lawson."  
  
"Did you know his first name?"  
  
"I think it's Robert."  
  
Slowly but surely, Starling brought out the story of what had transpired in that country house over the past week. It was difficult going, as the role of perky friend did not come easily to her. She did manage to get the girl talking and kept her talking. She couldn't help but feel sorry for Erin. While her captivity had been more comfortable than that of Jame Gumb's victims, it was still captivity. She noticed that Erin seemed to be of two minds on Dr. Lawson himself: she was clearly frightened of him on one level, but seemed to have become comfortable with him.  
  
Erin was less forthcoming on why this had happened to her or why she had gotten so hysterical about Jack Crawford's prior attempt to question her. When Starling mentioned his name, Erin cringed and almost burst into tears. Starling noted this on her pad and wondered what had happened; it was almost as if she knew Crawford personally. It took several minutes of soothing and assuring her that it was OK before questioning could resume. Erin vociferously denied having any knowledge of Dr. Lawson's plans and said that she had not even told him she needed dialysis.  
  
Satisfied, Starling moved on. "Now when they found you, you were in a strapless dress. Was that yours?"  
  
Erin shook her head. "Dr. Lawson gave that to me. He wanted to have a gourmet dinner with me the night he…discharged me."  
  
"A gourmet dinner?"  
  
"Yeah. Something French. Wait. Sautés reins, he said."  
  
The words gourmet dinner clanged in Starling's mind. She wrote them down on her pad, along with the words sautés reins.  
  
"Was he into gourmet food?"  
  
"Yes. That's how he met me, I guess. At the coffee bar. It's all lah-dee- dah, we serve gourmet coffee. And he was into classical music and literature too."  
  
An uneasy feeling crept into Starling's stomach.  
  
"Did he ever say his name was anything other than Robert Lawson?"  
  
"No," Erin said, looking strangely at her.  
  
"And according to your description, he had a beard and glasses?"  
  
"Yes." Then, in a more suspicious voice, "Why? Do you think I'm lying?"  
  
"No," Starling said. "Just making sure."  
  
She continued the questioning for a few more minutes, then thanked Erin for her time and said she had done fine. Outside, she searched for and found Crawford.  
  
"OK," she said. "I got a statement. A good one."  
  
Crawford smiled. "I knew I could count on you, Starling."  
  
Starling preened under the praise. "I do have a couple things, though. First off, I need to know what the dish sautes reins is."  
  
"Sounds French."  
  
"I want to see this coffee bar, and talk with the manager."  
  
"See it? Sure. We have a statement from the manager. He didn't know the Lawson guy personally. Seems Lawson had only buzzed in for the past couple of weeks before he pulled his little snatch 'n grab."  
  
"Let me do a few things," Starling said. "Is there a hotel room here or something?"  
  
"Yeah, you should have a reservation."  
  
Starling promised to meet him at five, and went out to do some research. She called the FBI and discovered that a search for doctors named Robert Lawson was already running. She dropped by the espresso bar where Erin Lander worked and spoke briefly with the manager there. He seemed a nice guy, but told her to refer to the statement he had given already. At the hotel, she commandeered Agent Witt's laptop, plugged it into the hotel's LAN, and fired up a web browser. She navigated to a translation website and typed in the words sautes reins. It took her a few tries to get it spelled right, since she was only operating off a phonetic spelling and did not know how to put in an accent mark. She had to translate from French to English a few times. Finally, however, it took, and Starling stared at the screen in horror, her hands clapped over her mouth.  
  
In the bottom box, it had the phrase she had put in: sautés reins. In the top box was the translation. Starling was horrified. Horrified at the words, and horrified because a faint suspicion was becoming clearer. She stared for several moments on the word in the top box.  
  
Sauteed kidneys.  
  
Dr. Lawson had given Erin new kidneys. He had dressed her up in a fancy gown, and offered her a gourmet dinner. That happened to consist of exactly what he had taken from her.  
  
Despite the horror, Starling was too good an investigator to not make the connection.  
  
Lawson had met Erin in a gourmet coffeehouse. Lawson liked gourmet food, fine wine, literature, and classical music. Lawson wasn't a surgeon by trade, but was obviously medically trained. Lawson knew a great deal about psychotropic drugs – the blood tests on Erin had shown a great variety of hypnotics and sedatives. Lawson had obviously killed the donor, since there was no report of a kidney theft from any hospital anywhere, which meant killing didn't bother him. On their last night together, Lawson had fed her a gourmet meal, which Starling believed consisted of Erin's original kidneys.  
  
There was only one man Starling knew of who fit that profile.  
  
Dr. Hannibal Lecter. 


	13. Arguing her case

Starling rose from her seat and ran two doors down to Jack Crawford's door. She pounded on it until he opened the door. He stared at her curiously.  
  
"Look, if you want dinner, you could just ask," he said, trying to be humorous.  
  
"I know who it is! It's Lecter! It's Lecter!" Starling panted.  
  
Crawford opened the door and raised an eyebrow quizzically at Starling. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"  
  
"Yes. It's him."  
  
Crawford sighed and opened the door. Crawford's room was a suite, and she saw the other agents – Witt and Meyer -- seated on the sofa. Starling came in.  
  
"Listen," she said. "I think our perp is Hannibal Lecter."  
  
Crawford snorted. He sat down on a chair. "I can think of three reasons why it wouldn't be him."  
  
"What are they?"  
  
"First off, she's alive. Secondly, she's not horribly injured. Third, she isn't crazy."  
  
"Neither am I, and I dealt with Lecter," she said.  
  
"When he was in a maximum security cell. Now look, Starling. There are several possibilities here. She may have gone abroad and gotten the transplant there. There are countries where they sell organs."  
  
"On a waitress's salary? She doesn't even have a car."  
  
"Or," Crawford continued, ignoring Starling's interruption, "maybe someone, somewhere, has set up a rogue surgical team and is selling black market organs. We did discover a whole lot of blood tests shipped by this Lawson character to an out of state medical lab for typing. It's hard to believe, but it is possible. Could be she agreed to guinea-pig for them, to see what hospitals would do when they turned up. Could even be that she didn't know, and Lawson picked her out himself as a guinea pig."  
  
"Or Lecter could have done it," Starling implored. "He's very intelligent. He could have done this."  
  
Crawford shook his head. "Dr. Lecter skipped the country after his escape. What would he come back for? And what in God's name makes you think that the doctor is suddenly filled with the milk of human kindness and decided to help out this girl?"  
  
"I don't know why he came back," Starling admitted, "but most probably money. He hid it good, good enough that the IRS hasn't been able to find it. Maybe he had to personally be there to get his hands on it. As far as why he would do it…same as with me. She amused him."  
  
"So he takes on this girl, locates and kills a donor, gets her, transplants the kidneys, and takes care of her 24-7 for an entire week because it amuses him?" Crawford shook his head.  
  
The fax machine hummed to life suddenly. One of the other agents went over to it and got the paper spewing out. He looked up.  
  
"Out of the country looks like a bust. No passport ever issued, no airline reports having her as a passenger. There was one Lander, E, going to New Delhi last week, but that's an Edwin Lander, no relation, forty-seven-year- old man."  
  
"It was Lecter," Starling rasped again. "Think about it. Gourmet coffee house. That's what drew him there. His tastes. And yes, he could have done this for her if it amused him. The manager said she was always real polite with the customers. Smart girl, too. Graduated college with a four- point. If she caught his eye, and he decided to try to help her out... it could've been an experiment for him."  
  
"Lecter's not a surgeon," the fourth agent – Meyer – observed.  
  
"He could learn," Starling answered. "That would also let him thumb his nose at the medical establishment. He thought very poorly of them."  
  
"Starling," Crawford said patiently, "I don't know what got you on this Lecter kick, but let's be honest here. It's not Lecter's M.O., not by far. It makes no sense for Lecter to have come back into this country. If he did, the smart thing for him to do would be lie low, get his money, and get out the minute he could. And her description of the perp doesn't even come close to matching Lecter. Now we're waiting on a list of doctors in all fifty states named Lawson. But I can't clear this as a Lecter sighting. Now look at other alternatives."  
  
"She said the last dinner he made her was sautés reins. Know what those are? Sauteed kidneys."  
  
Crawford raised an eyebrow and fell silent for a few minutes. "That's interesting, Starling, but are you sure they were hers? Could've just been a symbolic thing."  
  
"We could pump her stomach."  
  
"It was a couple of days ago. Whatever she ate is long gone. We've got no proof this was Lecter, Starling. Look at other alternatives."  
  
It was Starling's turn to fall silent. She needed proof, she knew that.  
  
"Can I question Erin Lander in the morning?"  
  
Crawford raised his hands. "Sure. If that Gestapo doctor will let you in. But unless you come back with a signed affidavit saying it was Lecter, I want you to come up with other alternatives."  
  
She thought about her theory. It was completely true that the smart thing for Dr. Lecter to do would be to lie low. But Dr. Lecter did not always do the smart thing. Sometimes, his whimsy got the best of him. Starling was determined to see that it would this time.  
  
The next morning, Starling slipped into Erin Lander's hospital room again. She seemed quieter.  
  
"Hi, Erin," Starling said, smiling. "I just wanted to know if I could ask you a question or two more."  
  
Erin grimaced and turned her face away. "Haven't I answered enough questions?" she asked plaintively. "All I want is to go home and get on with my life."  
  
The plea hit Starling in an unexpectedly sensitive place. She opened her hands. "Okay. Okay. Just one question I need answered, and then I'll leave you alone."  
  
"Fine," Erin replied, a bit irritably.  
  
"I just need to know if this is the man who did this to you," Starling said, and handed over the mugshot of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  
  
Erin took the picture and looked at it for a few minutes. Starling saw signs of recognition in her face. The tip of her tongue stuck out from between her teeth. The hand holding the photo trembled a bit. Her jaw moved once, twice, thrice. She handed the mugshot back and shook her head.  
  
"No," she said.  
  
"You hesitated," Starling observed.  
  
"I told you what he looked like," Erin said.  
  
"Do you know who that is?"  
  
"No. Isn't keeping track of criminals your job?"  
  
"That's Hannibal Lecter. And I think maybe he's the one who did this to you."  
  
"It's not him."  
  
Starling struggled for words. She'd never been terribly good at the kid- glove treatment and wasn't fond of having her theory shot to hell. Especially after she had seen recognition in Erin's face. Why in God's name would anyone protect Lecter?  
  
"Erin, look. Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head."  
  
"That's not him," Erin repeated.  
  
Starling tried a few more times, but Erin was not cooperating. But there was something strange going on here. Erin recognized the photograph. Starling could see that in her face. But she steadfastly refused to admit it. Eventually, she grew petulant and irritable, telling Starling that she had said it wasn't him five times already and why wasn't that enough. Starling had to hold herself back from yelling. She had always loathed girlish behavior in herself and other women.  
  
Well, better to admit defeat gracefully.  
  
"Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me," Starling said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of her business cards. "I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call."  
  
"Fine," Erin said crabbily.  
  
"You have a good day now, and I hope you feel better," Starling said, and left the room before her rage showed.  
  
Outside, Starling waited until she was out of earshot of Erin Lander – and her physician – and wheeled suddenly. Her fist smashed into the plain gray wall of the hallway. It left a satisfying hole in the drywall. Take that, Dr. Rhodes, she thought.  
  
"Damn!" she hissed. A few nurses and orderlies stared at her. She left the hospital and drove back to the hotel with a heavy feeling in her stomach. When she arrived, Crawford was on the phone. She sat, steaming, waiting for him to get off the phone. She felt like a young girl sent to the principal's office.  
  
Finally, Crawford hung up. He turned to her.  
  
"Get anything?"  
  
"No," she admitted, still fuming.  
  
Crawford nodded. After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry, Starling. But we can't go seeing Lecter behind every corner."  
  
"I know," she said.  
  
"Thanks for getting the statement, though," he said. "I do appreciate that."  
  
"My pleasure, sir," she said dully.  
  
"I'll get you on a plane back to D.C. Let you finish up on the other things you have to do."  
  
"All right," she said.  
  
"Keep your chin up, Starling. If I need you, I'll let you know. And maybe we can get you in here permanently, when the time is right."  
  
"Thank you, sir," she said.  
  
She returned to Washington later that day. On the plane, she was in a foul mood. At her desk, she stared bitterly at the phone, hoping beyond hope that it would ring. A few days later, the final profile of a sexually obsessed older doctor who had hoped to win Erin Lander's affections with a kidney transplant came out. Starling threw her copy in the trash and went out for lunch.  
  
Far away, Erin Lander was discharged from the hospital with the singular diagnosis of 'kidney transplant of unknown origin'. She was prescribed appropriate immune suppressants and referred to a transplant team for post- surgical care. Her professors at the medical school expressed interest and concern, and one came to pick her up from the hospital.  
  
At the apartment, she sat down at her roommate's computer and opened a web browser. In the search field, she typed 'Hannibal Lecter'. After surfing around and finding a site describing Dr. Lecter, she sat staring at the digitized image of the same mugshot Starling had showed her in the hospital.  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," she murmured. 


	14. Epilogue

THREE YEARS LATER  
  
Erin Lander steps out of the elevator and pads out towards the door of her tiny apartment. The graduation is finally passed, and in her hand she holds the piece of paper she has worked so hard for for the past seven years. Her internship is finally, thankfully over. She is now Erin Lander, M.D.  
  
Her things are already packed and boxed up. She has a residency all arranged in a faraway city – she will specialize in cardiac surgery with some trauma opportunities. Most of her things are already sent via UPS to the apartment she has rented not far from the hospital; all that remains are two small bags containing a week's worth of clothes and associated needs. She will attend a graduation party thrown by some of her classmates tonight; her flight leaves then at midnight.  
  
Dr. Lecter would be delighted to discover that his experiment has been a success. Both kidneys are perfectly healthy and function well. Other than the twin violin-like scars on her back, the only reminder that she has of them is the constant litany of medication she must take.  
  
At her door is a red and white box from DHL Express. She frowns and picks up the box. It has an international stamp and a customs declaration on it. She doesn't know anyone overseas and wonders who has sent it. Picking up the box, she discovers it is very light. She is flattered and satisfied to note it is addressed to "Erin Lander, MD".  
  
She opens the door to her small dorm room and sits down at her desk. The box is sealed with cellophane tape, but it yields quickly to scissors. As she opens the box and views the contents, her breathing becomes a sharp gasp.  
  
One item is wrapped in brown paper. The other is a cream envelope with her name written in a fine copperplate across the center. The third is a perfectly ordinary manila file folder. She takes the envelope with nerveless fingers and opens it. Out slides a piece of expensive paper the same shade as the envelope. The same copperplate spills across it. Even before she reads the letter, she knows who has sent it.  
  
Dear Erin,  
  
I would like to congratulate you on your graduation. After all those years, it must be good to be free of the coffee bar, and of your internship. Perhaps now, your degree and new title will give you the respect you have sought. You'll be free of the petty torments of lower-end jobs. Perhaps you'll even convince yourself that you've graduated beyond your origins, and no longer need to gaze with envy at those better off financially than you.  
  
Now I would like to discuss death and power with you. As a doctor, you'll be much more familiar with them than you may have considered. It isn't all Gray's anatomy and drugs, you know – medicine has a much more basic element.  
  
As a doctor, you will find yourself become immured to death. At first, you'll be very hurt and upset when your patients die – and since you've chosen cardiac surgery as a residency, you'll most certainly see them die. But eventually, you'll harden up and become indifferent to it. Your first patients you'll remember; later patients you won't, for you'll see them as mere bodies strapped to a table for you.  
  
Power? All your life you have been relatively powerless: as a student, as an intern. Others told you what to do and how to do it. Once you're allowed to begin surgery yourself, doctor, you'll taste power yourself and like it. When someone is helpless before you on a table, their naked heart open to your blade and tools, that is true power. Perhaps you'll become addicted to it; some doctors do. In some cases, of course, you'd do society a favor if you simply severed the vena cava and put an end to the whole thing. Who knows? Perhaps you'll find someone you deem worthy, you'll take a heart or two for them.  
  
I hope you will like the graduation gift. I had it custom-made here, by a fine tailor I know. I presume your measurements have not changed too much since the week of our experiment. You are at heart a practical woman and would disdain fripperies such as shoes or a scarf.  
  
When we last met, you knew me as Robert Lawson. I'm sure you know that is not my name. I do appreciate you keeping my secret from the FBI, even though I gave you a bit of help there. Continue to keep it, if you please – I'd rather not be forced to pay you a business call. Leave me in peace, and I shall grant you the same privilege.  
  
As a last note, I include your case file. That awful Dr. Rhodes wrote a frankly horrid article on your transplant. Perhaps you could set the record straight – the article alone would make you famous.  
  
  
  
Sincerely,  
  
  
  
Hannibal Lecter, MD  
  
  
  
It is with no small trepidation that Erin Lander's eyes move over the letter and towards the bundle wrapped in brown paper. She removes the brown paper to discover a piece of white cloth, wrapped in plastic. For a moment her mind flicks back to the fine cream-colored silk gown, counterpointed by two drops of blood on the back. But no, he hadn't had that; it was probably moldering in some FBI evidence locker somewhere. There is a tiny yellow receipt atop the plastic-wrapped bundle. She lifts it only to discover it is written in Italian, a language she cannot read. With trembling fingers, she opens the plastic.  
  
Inside is a lab coat. Staring at the utterly mundane gift for a newly minted doctor, she can't help but laugh. It is an exceptionally made one, however; fine Egyptian cotton. The pockets are deep and flapped. Her name is sewn in red silk over the right breast pocket. She slides her arms into the coat, and it fits too well to be anything but custom-made. Her measurements have not changed terribly much since the week Dr. Lecter performed his experiment.  
  
Her eyes flit across her own image in the wall mirror. She glances down at the file folder, and opens it. With photographs, jotted notes, and a patient-care history written in an entirely normal fashion, it contains the history of how, three years ago, Dr. Lecter kidnapped her, implanted a stolen set of kidneys into her, and kept her in his home for a week after that. Surgical notes, post-op care, everything is there. Even psychiatric notes on the results of her hypnosis sessions.  
  
For a moment she entertains the possibility of calling the FBI agent. Here, after all, is proof positive that Clarice Starling was right, that the man who had done this to her was indeed Hannibal Lecter. She looks in her purse and roots around through the vortex of its contents. There, in her wallet, she finds Clarice Starling's business card.  
  
She reaches for the phone, but her fingers refuse to dial the numbers. Instead of the low moan of the dial tone, voices from the time of the experiment replay in her mind.  
  
Agent Starling, with her tender smile and her heavy West Virginia accent: Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me…I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call.  
  
Dr. Lawson – no, Dr. Lecter – the voice she remembers well, although the words she does not: Agent Starling is not your enemy, Erin. But she works in the service of those who are. She'll tell you I'm dangerous. Sbe'll mean it well, and she'll be very sympathetic to you, and you'll be tempted to tell her everything she wants to know. But it's not the time.  
  
Starling: Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head.  
  
Dr. Lecter: I have given you the gift of life.  
  
"Yes, you did," she murmurs in the stillness of the bare apartment. She opens up her suitcase and carefully folds the lab coat in with the rest of her clothing. She stuffs the folder under it. For a moment, she intends to throw the box away, but she reconsiders and crams it into her suitcase.  
  
Yet part of her remembers what Dr. Lecter has done, what he is capable of. She cannot and she must: wants to and does not want to. She grabs the phone again and dials the number. A mechanized voice informs her she has dialed the FBI and that her call is being recorded. It rings one, twice, and then a woman's voice answers.  
  
"FBI, Agent Starling."  
  
For the second time, Erin's tongue catches between her teeth. She wants to speak, but cannot. The psychological lock Dr. Lecter has put on her tongue still holds.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Erin's eyes close and she hangs up the phone without a word. She puts her head in her hands for several moments. There is nothing else to do on this monumental night, so she puts on her coat, checks her bags, and leaves her apartment for the graduation party.  
  
For three hours she trades anecdotes and has brief discussions with her classmates, but her mind is elsewhere: in a large house in the country with a charming yet terrifying captor, in a hospital bed while surgeons and policemen struggle to figure out the very simple yet baffling thing that has been done to her. The glass of wine she sips at reminds her of the wine Dr. Lecter served her. The smell of roast beef and ham reminds her of sautés reins. When Dr. Lecter had watched her eat her own kidneys, sautéed and served in a sherry sauce. She can only half-smile at her fellow graduates and make banal conversation. Concentrating on anything is difficult, as if she had been given a hypnotic drug. She is glad to escape the party and returns to the apartment to pick up her bag and leave for the airport.  
  
The airport is comforting in its anonymity. The gate agent checks one of her bags, and the security guards scan the other one. Other than that, no one bothers her. She makes her way towards the gate, a tiny island of her own as the sea of humanity flows around her in the busy airport. She checks her watch; two hours until her flight leaves. She checks her wallet, and is pleased to discover two twenties she has forgotten about. She walks over to the airport bar and orders a glass of white wine.  
  
She is perfectly safe in her own little world, here. A few men in suits of varying cost eye her, and one attempts to start up a conversation, but she responds with disinterest and he goes off to find easier prey. People move on their own way all around her, and she is pleased that none of them even seem to notice her presence.  
  
"Hi."  
  
The voice comes from the next chair over. It is a woman's voice, accented with the Southern tones of West Virgina. Erin turns suddenly to discover Clarice Starling sitting in the stool next to her. Starling smiles at her and flashes her FBI ID.  
  
"I'm Clarice Starling, with the FBI. We met a few years ago."  
  
Erin smiles coolly. "Yes, Agent Starling. You interrogated me at the hospital."  
  
"Dr. Lander, I'm curious about a phone call placed tonight to my extension. A phone call that was placed from your apartment."  
  
Erin does not reply immediately. She notes that Starling has correctly called her 'doctor', which means she must have done some homework.  
  
"All calls made to the FBI are traced and recorded. I don't know what you've seen in the movies, but that it-takes-twenty-seconds stuff isn't true." She smiles. "You know, I thought in the hospital that you were hiding something. And then, I could understand it after what you'd been through."  
  
"A call? Oh, I'm sorry about that. Graduation was today. I had a few other students over for drinks. One of them found your card in my drawer and called it as a joke." Erin smiles and looks down, embarrassed. "I'm very sorry."  
  
Starling smiles back. Good, she thinks, but not good enough. "According to your landlord, you came home at six-thirty, alone. Then left at seven or so, also alone. Came back around ten and caught a taxi…both times alone."  
  
"He was mistaken."  
  
Starling leans forward. Part of her is tempted to simply grab the younger, smaller woman and shake her until she confesses. Dr. Lander's refusal to tell her what she wants is palpable, like a cloak worn over her smart black pantsuit.  
  
"He is a very dangerous man, Dr. Lander. He's killed numerous people. And you're protecting him?!"  
  
Erin's eyebrow raises. "My landlord? I doubt that, Agent Starling. He's a fifty-five-year-old man with grandchildren."  
  
Starling shakes her head. "I mean Dr. Lecter," she hisses. "Maybe he told you then his name was Lawson, but you know damn well it's Lecter."  
  
"I'm not protecting Dr. Lawson. I told you what he looks like. It's your job to catch him, isn't it?"  
  
Starling has had enough of this. In the hospital, she could not help but feel sorry for Erin. Starling's natural sympathy for the plight of the captive extended to the distraught, confused young woman in the hospital bed. But here, in this airport bar, dealing with a self-assured young doctor who plans to keep the charade going, she is enraged. Largely because she knows Dr. Lander is correct. The Lander inquiry was closed years ago; Jack Crawford did not classify it as a Lecter sighting. If she doesn't talk now, Starling will lose her chance to correct the record and get something—anything—that might help her track the monster. Dr. Lander's manner reminds her suddenly of Dr. Lecter, when they had first met in the basement dungeon of the insane asylum. She is sure now, surer than she has ever been. Lawson had been Lecter, and Dr. Lander was protecting him.  
  
She reaches forward and clamps her hand on the younger woman's arm. It is not a hard clamp, but a clamp all the same.  
  
"Listen, doctor," she says. "Let me tell you a little story. The man you identified as Lawson, you want to know something about him? There are one hundred and three men named Robert Lawson who have been licensed to practice medicine since 1950. We went looking for surgeons with that name, found six. All checked out. When we went back to the general list, guess what? Sixty still practicing, eighteen retired, nineteen dead."  
  
"That's very nice, but get your hand off my arm."  
  
"In a minute. There's one missing. Reporting missing fifteen years ago, presumed dead. And guess what?" Starling reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a black and white picture which she gives to Erin. Erin glances at it and then looks back up at Starling.  
  
"Does that man look familiar to you, Dr. Lander? He should. Because that's the man you identified to me. Congratulations, because you found a man missing for fifteen years. Quite a mystery you cracked there." Her eyes bore into Erin's. "Now. I know that your ID was made-up, I know that it was Dr. Lecter who did this, and I know that you wanted to tell me that tonight. That's why you called."  
  
"That was accidental. I told you."  
  
"No, it wasn't." Starling releases the other woman's arm. The tough-cop approach does not seem to be working. "Look, I can understand why you'd want to protect him. Most of Lecter's victims died; only two others lived. You, you came out with a kidney transplant. But what he did, he didn't do for you. It was…his whimsy. He did it because it amused him. Maybe he told you he cared about you, but he doesn't. He's an incredibly dangerous man."  
  
Dr. Lander sighs and sips her wine. "Agent Starling, look, I am really sorry to disappoint you, but I am not a Lecter victim." She flicks the picture of Dr. Lawson back at Starling. "Dr. Lawson was the man who kidnapped me and…well…transplanted kidneys into me. I don't know where he got them and I don't know how he settled on me. One minute I was locking up the coffee bar, the next minute I was in his house in the country with incisions in my back. I told you what he looked like, I told you what his name was…you're a cop. Catching him is your job."  
  
"Why are you doing this?" Starling seethes. She controls herself, but it is still a seethe. The urge to slam Dr. Lander's head into the bar a few times is strong. Starling's hand curls into a fist on the bar and bumps Dr. Lander's purse, unaware that inside the purse, behind a few scant layers of leather, is the letter that will prove her correct.  
  
"Better question is, why are you doing this? You didn't read me my rights. You didn't come here with any other agents. You just tracked me down and gave me the third degree here." Dr. Lander's eyes gleam. "You don't have FBI permission to be here. This investigation's closed. You don't have anything, Agent Starling."  
  
"I can hold you for questioning."  
  
"And I can get a lawyer and be out in an hour." Dr. Lander grins triumphantly. "You're the only one who believes it was Lecter. Even…your superiors didn't agree with you. You can't hold me. You're bluffing, Agent Starling." Even after three years, she cannot say the name 'Jack Crawford' without recoiling.  
  
Overhead, the P.A. clicks on, announcing the arrival of yet another flight.  
  
"Look," Dr. Lander says in a tone more kind, "I'm sorry. Really. I know this must mean a lot to you and I'm sure you believe you're correct." Crazily, Starling thinks of arriving at the asylum a long time ago, when Dr. Lecter's greeting to her had been a towel for her hair shoved through his tray carrier. "But I can't tell you what you want to hear." She does not and cannot mention that it is because of a hypnotic block.  
  
Dr. Lander rises from her barstool and finishes the rest of her wine. "Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Starling, they're boarding my flight."  
  
Starling does not say anything in response. Her teeth grit and her fingers dig into the palms of her hands, leaving red half-moons in her palms. Her best source of information on Lecter is walking out, and there is nothing she can do to prevent it. There is no way she can justify detaining her.  
  
Dr. Lander takes a step away from the barstool, and decides to let her have at least something. She turns back, puts her hand on Starling's shoulder, and whispers wine-scented words into her ear. They are the only words she can say that may mean anything to Starling.  
  
"He spoke about you. He cares about you, very much. Thinks about you, every day."  
  
Starling's head swivels to look at Dr. Lander. Dr. Lander pats her shoulder and offers her a small smile.  
  
"I'm not testifying and you can't prove anything. But I thought you'd want to know."  
  
With that, Dr. Lander is gone, walking swiftly from the airport bar to her plane. She offers the gate agent her ticket and boarding pass, boards the plane, and sits down to be whisked to a new chapter in her life. She will always wonder if her former captor is watching her after tonight.  
  
Starling sits alone in the airport bar. She is torn: gratified to know she was right after all, yet simultaneously enraged that she will never be able to prove it. Most of all, she is oddly comforted.  
  
"Thank you, doctor," she says in the stillness. 


End file.
